Forgotten People: They want their country, culture and community back.

By Richard Paul Evans

Australian First Nations want their country, culture and community back.

Independence was never ceded, and she will do whatever it takes to get it back, including the ultimate sacrifice.

 

When government peace talks stop, revolution begins.

 

Should a government be obliged t

• Language: English
• Publisher: 852 Press
• Release date: Jun 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9780648932826

Richard Paul Evans

Richard Paul Evans is the #1 New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than forty novels. There are currently more than thirty-five million copies of his books in print worldwide, translated into more than twenty-four languages. Richard is the recipient of numerous awards, including two first place Storytelling World Awards, the Romantic Times Best Women’s Novel of the Year Award, and five Religion Communicators Council’s Wilbur Awards. Seven of Richard’s books have been produced as television movies. His first feature film, The Noel Diary, starring Justin Hartley (This Is Us) and acclaimed film director, Charles Shyer (Private Benjamin, Father of the Bride), premiered in 2022. In 2011 Richard began writing Michael Vey, a #1 New York Times bestselling young adult series which has won more than a dozen awards. Richard is the founder of The Christmas Box International, an organization devoted to maintaining emergency children’s shelters and providing services and resources for abused, neglected, or homeless children and young adults. To date, more than 125,000 youths have been helped by the charity. For his humanitarian work, Richard has received the Washington Times Humanitarian of the Century Award and the Volunteers of America National Empathy Award. Richard lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, with his wife, Keri, and their five children and two grandchildren. You can learn more about Richard on his website RichardPaulEvans.com.

Book preview

READERS TALK ABOUT RICHARD EVANS

Richard Evans’ first book, Deceit, is a five-star thriller that brings the Australian political process to life.  – GOODREADS

I absolutely loved it, couldn’t put it down. I would love to see your book become a movie. – IAN S., MELBOURNE

Richard Evans first book in the Democracy trilogy was compelling. – GOODREADS.

Rich in ideas and provokes much thought about our parliamentary process, abuses of power, corruption, and the need, at times, for ordinary people to step up and take a stand in the name of honour and professional integrity. – NADINE D., EDITOR

This is an outstanding debut from Evans, and this terrific read comes highly recommended.’ – GOODREADS

From former Federal MP Richard Evans comes this exceptional political thriller debut, which serves as the first part of his Democracy trilogy.’ CANBERRA WEEKLY

I adored Gordon O'Brien. Straight as an arrow amongst those who are only in things for themselves, I couldn't help but cheer him on as he was like a dog with a bone, searching out the truth’ BJ'S BOOK BLOG

Just finished reading Deceit and it was gripping; I could not put it down. It was brilliant. I just loved the book and can't wait to read Duplicity.’

FORMER CLERK OF VICTORIAN LEGISLATIVE COUNCIL

I thoroughly enjoyed the book and did not want to put the book down, but neither did I want the story to end!   Congratulations! – TRINITY MARKETING

ALSO BY RICHARD EVANS

Democracy Trilogy

Deceit

Duplicity

Doomed

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Non-Fiction

The Australian Franchising Handbook

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A FREE copy of DECEIT available for immediate collection from the following link

GET MY FREE BOOK

First published in 2020 by 852 Press,

an imprint of Corven Pty. Limited

Suite 208, 5-11 Cole Street, Williamstown Victoria 3016 Australia

www.852Press.com

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Copyright © Richard Evans 2020

This book is a work of fiction. The characters and incidents are the products of the writer’s imagination

and are not to be construed as real.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any other information

storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

––––––––

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

Author: Evans, Richard

Title: Forgotten People / by Richard Evans

ISBN: 978-0-6489328-0-2 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-0-6489328-2-6 (ebook)

ISBN: 978-0-6489328-1-9 (hardcover)

Australian fiction.

Cover Design: Working Type, www.workingtype.com.au

Internal design: Working Type

Cover Image: Photo by Warren Wong on Unsplash, https://www.facebook.com/wflwong/

I am not an Indigenous person and this work of fiction does not,

and could not, replace an Indigenous voice.

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I would like to acknowledge the Traditional Custodians of the land now called Australia and pay my respects to Elders past, present and emerging. I extend my respect to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples.

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My friends inspire me.

One friend inspired this story - I share her passion for justice.

FORGOTTEN PEOPLE

PROLOGUE

No one heard a thing.

No bracken rustled, no stick cracked, no gravel shifted. There was nothing. They lazed about the fire, some under blankets, others sitting on plastic chairs or boxes, a few snoozing in meagre humpies. The night was crisp, and most dozed, weary after another long day defending ancestral lands. Miller noticed Aunty Mary’s head jolt back driving her off the stool, upending it.

‘Aunty Mary? Are you okay? What happened?’ Miller shoved up from her bedroll and hurried over to check on the woman everyone called Aunty. As she bent over, she felt a sharp bite on her calf, and slapped the bug away, checking her hand for its remains but seeing blood, lots of blood.

‘RUN.’

Silence no longer mattered, the men hidden at the edge of the clearing opened up with rapid-fire weapons, smashing the mob’s signs, smashing lean-tos, smashing tents, smashing bones. Miller heard the rolling echo cross the valley as she crashed uphill, barbs tearing at her. She kept running until she reached the ridge, stumbling down the other side, breath rasping.

The destruction stopped at a command and then from the silence someone asked, ‘Did we get ’em all?’

‘I think so, Commander.’ A large man stood and entered the clearing, dressed in black, a balaclava obscuring his face. ‘Shall we burn them or bury them?’

More black-clad men entered the camp site, weapons at the ready.

‘Burn the equipment. Throw the kaffirs in the river. Give the crocs a feed.’

The men combed the killing field for evidence of failing life, finding none. Like any elite military unit, they organised themselves, some dragging bodies to the nearby river bank while others tossed junk onto the fire, the flames and wafting embers reaching high into the overhanging trees.

‘Pity there’s no wind, we could start a bush fire,’ joked the big mercenary. ‘Nothing left of their precious land then.’ A few comrades chuckled.

‘We’re here to do a job, McGuiness,’ snapped the commander. ‘Let’s get it done and start back to the rendezvous point. It’s a long way, so remain focused. Plenty of time for jokes later.’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

***

Miller couldn’t run anymore. She crashed over a log and lay there, panting, then wriggled under the fallen giant, caring little what might be sharing the small, damp space. She listened and waited for the sound of heavy footsteps, but the only thing she could hear was a pulse pounding in her ear. In time, when her breathing slowed, and anxiety weakened, the lair became a bed.

Warmth roused her. The sun was high, ants scurrying across her face searching for food and anything else she offered. The buzz of frenzied flies nearby was the first sound she heard. Miller crawled from her hideaway, brushing and flicking insects, grubs and dirt from herself, as she left her burrow stopping to listen and checking about.

Nothing.

She was stiff and sore as she stretched to stand, then collapsing as a sharp pain in her calf crippled her for a moment. An ugly gash along her calf had congealed with bugs wriggling in it, a blowfly extending its stay until she flicked it away. After testing the leg a few times, she assessed it was sturdy enough to walk, albeit little by little. She wanted to bathe and dress it, but options were limited.

Miller twisted onto the log to survey the landscape, searching for familiar markers. She figured what was left of the camp site must be back over the hill behind her; the stench of acrid smoke meant it was close. She gazed out over the valley, over a stand of forest and rough terrain, squeezing a smile, feeling good about what she could see. The land of her ancestors provided a deep sense of spiritual wellbeing.

Cautiously, slowly, painfully, she crept back up the hill, alert for unusual shapes or sounds, thanking her father for the skills he had taught her. ‘Stay low, blend in, become one with the land.’ She collected as much spider web as she could on her way back to camp, just in case.

She reached the edge of the clearing late in the day and waited. She studied what was left of the family’s camp but could hear or see nothing other than the charred remains of equipment in the smouldering ash-laden fire, a trail of smoke filtering high into the trees.

Miller took a deep breath and stepped out into the clearing, tense, rigid, listening for any sound of aggression. She circled the clearing, watching, searching for any sign of her family.

Nothing.

Her mob had been at the site for a week, working and playing together. Their plan had been to stop the wrecking machines consigned to build essential services for a mine that would scar the landscape and drive away ancestors’ spirits. They intended to take as long as was needed to prevent the works. Diamond deposits had been found years earlier and now the prospectors wanted a mine to extract the rich vein of valuable diamonds. First the government, then the courts denied the traditional owners’ rights to stop exploratory mining that had been undertaken to assess potential yield of the deposits, and now the miners were coming.

Traditional owners demanded sacred sites be protected; they explained sites were used for ceremonies and spiritual connection, but the government rejected their submissions. The courts dismissed claims of native title, determining the almost extinct language and diminishing cultural links to the land meant there was no authentic connection to qualify their claim, so the sole action left for the Umbakarta people was to fight to protect ancestral lands. Their strategy was simple enough: deny access to the excavators. To them, no access road would mean no mining. They hoped any delay would convince the government to rethink its policy and support them. Now, Miller stood alone; she was all that remained of her people.

She walked to the river’s edge and dribbled water onto her wound, keeping an eye out for crocodiles, then sat cross-legged, back straight, facing the streaming water, humming and reciting a spiritual chant to her forefathers. Once the wound was dry, she packed the spider web she’d collected into the wound, resuming her chant until the sun set.

‘Miller? Is that you? Where is everyone?’

She jumped. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me, Jimmy. What the hell happened? Where is everyone?’ Miller’s cousin hurried from the clearing down to the river.

‘Where have you been?’ asked Miller, scrambling to her feet. ‘Why weren’t you here?’ She stepped back, moving away, heading toward a clear escape path.

‘What’s wrong? Where are the others?’

Miller sucked in a breath, filling her lungs to calm emotions, then another. She was trembling, unable to say what she thought might have happened. ‘You said you would be here; where were you?’

‘I was in town buying supplies . . . you know that.’

‘Dave always manages supplies,’ Miller said, circling back into the camp site. ‘You never like handling food supplies, you hate it. You administer the money, so why now?’

‘Miller, don’t be like that, come here. I had nothing to do with this tragedy.’

‘Yeah?’ Miller cocked her head. ‘So, what tragedy are you talking about?

1

FIVE YEARS LATER

The scratching whirl of the overhead fan slinked into Miller’s consciousness as she roused from sleep. It was already hot, her cotton sheet was damp. She rolled over to gaze out across the balcony onto the empty beach. It called to her, so she jumped up, grabbed her sarong and skipped along the thin sandy trail until it opened out onto the cove. The waves were gentle, so she dropped her wrap and ran in until she met a wave, diving through it, flipping onto her back and spouting water.

This was the unsullied life she cherished, untouched by Europeans and seldom shared with the peoples from nearby islands. A life as it should be with little care for economies and markets. The worries of the warring countries to the north were of little interest. She didn’t know them; their disputes were of no concern to her. She was in country and that was the most important thing to her.

She stood her ground, looking back to shore, letting the small waves break over her. Her father must have been a visionary to have built their shack so close to the beach, and although she now lived by herself, she was happy with the simple, yet sturdy building. Unless you knew where it was, nobody stumbling onto the beach would be able to find it.

The tide was out, exposing a fringing reef, so Miller went fossicking for a meal. She had left a piece of metal wedged between rocks, to prise shells from the reef whenever she needed a feed. The reef was overrun with breakfast and soon Miller had heaped enough onto a rocky outcrop. She collected her sarong gathering the shells into a ball then strolled back, picking up a sea cucumber she noticed on the way.

Once back at the shack she unhooked a pot dangling from the ceiling, half filled it with water from the overflowing rainwater tank before putting it on a gas burner. She rinsed the shells in a bucket before tossing them, with the cucumber, into the pot to boil for five minutes. While she waited, she stepped outside to the rudimentary latrine, turning on the shower, sluicing salt from her skin and soaping her hair, before rinsing in the warm water. As she patted herself dry she felt the scar on her calf. It had taken a long time to heal and still looked nasty, the pale gash contrasting with the dark honey colour of her skin.

She came to visit her father’s house whenever she needed to re-energise her spirit, which happened more often over the last five years. The loss of her family was like a heavy sludge upon her soul, dragging down her thinking. Sometimes, she spontaneously wailed when she thought about them, distressing those about her. It was still raw for her, often feeling answerable for what happened and uncaring. She had a duty to avenge what had been done; she just didn’t know how, or what she could do, until a few months back concocting a plan.

After breakfast, Miller relaxed in a chair with a glass of her special mix iced tea, enjoying the noises of country. Always a perfect moment for her.

The peace was cracked when she heard a male voice call from near the end of the dirt track. ‘Hello.’

Miller kicked out of her seat and crept to the edge of the verandah to try identifying who was calling.

‘Hello, Nellie?’ The call came again – then there was a pause before the call was repeated. ‘Hello?’

‘Wooy,’ Miller called back, hoping to catch a glimpse of who it might be.

‘Hello?’ The man was tramping closer.

‘Wooy.’ Miller couldn’t yet see any movement through the bush. ‘Yes – I’m here,’ she called. ‘Come through, follow the trail.’

It wasn’t long before Neesham appeared. ‘I thought you might have been here. Don’t you ever answer your phone?’

‘No reception out here. Well, at least that’s my excuse.’ Miller stood with hands on her hips inspecting Neesham walking toward her. ‘What do you want?’

‘Yeah, nice to see you to, cuz,’ Neesham said, sauntering to the steps. ‘Do you want to, maybe, put some clothes on?’

‘Hasn’t bothered you in the past.’

‘You were a kid back then.’

‘Don’t tell me a naked woman frightens you,’ Miller laughed as she retreated to wrap the sarong around herself. ‘I sometimes had my suspicions about you.’

‘You don’t scare me . . . but I’m here on business.’

‘Do you want anything to drink?’

‘A tea would be nice.’

‘A tea?’ Miller laughed. ‘Now I definitely have my suspicions.’

‘Get stuffed will you and put the kettle on.’

‘I have iced tea; will that do?’

‘If you made it, and it’s not processed crap, then that’ll be great. Do you want a hand?’

‘No. Relax and I’ll be right back.’

Neesham stepped up onto the verandah, placing his bag beside a wicker chair collapsing into the cushions as Miller moved off into the kitchen. ‘I have serious business to talk to you about.’

‘Oh yes?’ Miller called from the kitchen as she prepared the chilled tea. ‘It must be important for you to come all this way on the off-chance I might be here.’

‘It is.’

‘Sounds ominous,’ said Miller as she returned, handing Neesham a glass, plonking herself on the cushioned lounge. ‘What’s troubling you?’

‘I’ve been approached by the government about a couple of things,’ Neesham said, before taking a long draught of tea.

‘What do those flakes want?’

‘Well, it seems they’re concerned about you.’

‘What have I done that should concern them?’

‘You do and say things that concern Homeland Security.’

‘What a joke. We don’t have a homeland.’

‘They reckon that’s their issue,’ said Neesham as he took another mouthful, placing his glass on a wooden crate beside him. ‘They reckon you’re stirring up trouble talking about wanting to create a homeland.’

‘The Congress have had the idea as part of their strategy for yonks, but they never act on it.’ Miller swung out of the lounge and sauntered back into the kitchen as Neesham’s eyes followed her, switching to the ugly scar on her leg. She picked up a bowl of chopped vegetables and nuts and brought it back, offering it to Neesham to select a nibble, before resting it on her lap as she lay back on the lounge.

Neesham bit into his carrot stick. ‘We have been debating the idea for years, but Congress is yet to agree on anything. We can’t seem to get past what it means and where we should claim – too many traditional owners want to have a say. They want to stay close to their land and don’t want others sharing Country.’

‘A homeland wouldn’t override native title claims; it would complement it.’ Miller crunched on some nuts. ‘A recognised homeland gives us identity and place. It shouldn’t matter who the traditional owners are, we should be able to work with them. Claims in other parts of the country can remain as valid as they are today. I don’t see a problem.’

‘The government sees a problem.’

‘They want our land to extract riches from it; to rip it open and feast on it. They never give anything back. They are killing us and our culture, and it’s been like that for years.’

‘That’s ridiculous, the government is not killing us.’

‘Time is killing us, Jimmy,’ Miller shoved the bowl away, sitting forward, ‘they stole our land – no problem, they did that in other countries they conquered – the trouble is, they’ve forgotten us. We didn’t resist them tough enough when they arrived, and we’ve been paying the price ever since.’

‘We resisted, we still do – I do.’

‘You know something, Jimmy, if I was at Warrane all those years ago, fucking Phillip would never have come ashore.’

Neesham avoided her gaze. ‘Yeah, maybe,’ he smirked, ‘fact is, they did come ashore.’

‘We have been done over by every government ever since. It’s even worse now with their false promises of reconciliation and closing the gap.’

‘We are making significant steps getting what we want; it just takes time.’

‘While you blokes talk, talk, talk and fucking talk, our culture dies, and we just become the dregs of the country as every other immigrant group that comes here generates greater benefits and acknowledgement from the government. Squatters, the lot of them.’

‘That may be so, but we have to work with what they’ve given us.’

‘That’s the point, Jimmy,’ Miller perched on the edge of the lounge, ‘we accept their handouts and get nothing more from them. Why not fight and take our country back?’

‘This is the type of language they have a problem with. They reckon you are stirring up trouble amongst the community and want you to stop pushing this idea of revolution.’

‘I’ll stop when we get action from the government.’

‘No – you’ll stop now. The Council of Elders has withdrawn your membership.’

‘They can’t do that; I represent my mob.’

‘Your family no longer exists. The Elders have insisted you need to wait until you are of age to take your place at Congress.’

‘That’s bullshit. Why?’ Miller stood creeping to the edge of the verandah, squinting out to the beach.

‘The elders believe you are speaking the language of hate, on social media especially. We hear you’re recruiting some sort of secret mob. They believe you are stirring up too many spirits from the past – they say we have come too far to fight the battles of the past.’ Neesham also stood and faced her. ‘They see the young listening to you and rejecting the elders’ proposals for reconciliation and building respect through dialogue and negotiation.’

‘Gee, hasn’t that worked well for the first three hundred years.’

‘We now have the Congress, which is arbitrating well, and our needs are being acknowledged by the government. We influence laws affecting us and elders are treated with the respect they deserve before the commonwealth parliament.’

‘You don’t think they treat the elders’ days in the parliament as anything but tokenism, do you? They sit with the senate for a few days? So, what? They meet with us, we have members sitting in the parliament, so what? It hasn’t solved a damn thing.’

‘It’s been an important step to recognition – it’s what we agreed to do when we were proclaimed acknowledgment in the constitution.’

Miller stepped away, shaking her head.

‘We are close to getting a treaty signed.’

‘Then what?’ Miller snorted, turning back to glare at Neesham, arms crossed. ‘All our troubles will be over?’

‘This idea of a homeland may have merit, but it will never be sanctioned by the government.’

‘Of course, it will never be approved by the government – they would lose credibility and respect if they did,’ Miller barked. ‘We have to take it from them.’ A bird screeched, others fluttered away at the sound of her voice.

‘We’ll get it. It just needs time.’ Neesham tried appeasing her.

‘Talk, talk, fucking talk – that’s all you ever do.’ Miller wished he would leave.

Neesham was cautious, ‘Nellie, they know you are asking around about weapons.’

She dropped her head shaking it then squinted out to the beach again.

‘They want me to satisfy myself you’re not dangerous.’

‘Dangerous?’ Miller shook her head and brushed a tear from her cheek. ‘Was Mandela dangerous? Was Gandhi dangerous? Was Pancho fucking Villa dangerous?’

‘Just assure me you are not planning anything crazy.’

‘Why don’t you go back to your cosy nest of thieves and continue to get fat and lazy while your brothers and sisters remain forgotten by you and your mates. Our people are struggling, and you lot do nothing but appease.’

‘I work hard for them.’

‘You know that’s crap.’ Miller turned and ripped her sarong away, tossing it on the lounge. ‘You have done nothing, and our culture continues to be the loser. Now, fuck off.’ She skipped from the verandah, heading for the beach.

***

A few hours later, as night darkened the waters, a fishing boat puttered into the cove. Miller, waiting on the beach, flashed her torch a couple of times and the vessel changed direction, navigating toward her. As it neared the shore an athletic man jumped off the bow with rope in hand, heading for the shore, searching for a solid mooring. The skipper shut down the engine and waddled from the wheelhouse to the bow.

‘Ahoy there,’ he growled.

‘Are you from Moresby?’ Miller stood at the water’s edge.

‘Where else would I be from, lady? I’ve got a load for you – where do you want it?’

‘On the beach is fine.’

‘Try not to leave it out too long; the salt and sand won’t do the mechanisms any good.’

‘I’m leaving first thing, it’ll be okay.’

‘Do you have me money?’

‘Come ashore and we can settle up.’

‘Not that I don’t trust you, lady, but I’d prefer you come aboard.’

The young man had waded back to the boat and was passed a large grey plastic chest, which he hoisted onto his shoulder, striding back to shore, dumping it near the tree line. He returned and lifted Miller onto the boat as if she weighed no more than a child.

‘Strong boy. Where did you get him?’

‘He’s from the mountains. He got sick of eating his neighbours, so he came to work with me,’ laughed the skipper. ‘Now he’s a vegetarian. Go figure.’

‘Yes, yes – very funny,’ Miller dismissed him. ‘I have your money; I suppose you want to count it.’ She tossed a plastic-wrapped wad of notes to him.

‘Lady, if it’s not all there then I’ll be back for it, and you.’ The skipper snatched at the wad and waved her to sit as he walked back to the wheelhouse, tugging a bottle of dark rum and two glasses from a shelf. ‘Fancy a drink, love?’ He filled the glasses and offered one to Miller. Not a shot, but a half glass. ‘Here’s to international business.’

The skipper held out his glass and Miller clinked hers before following the skipper’s lead, swallowing the load. She coughed as it burned, but it felt good. The old man poured another.

‘If I need you again, I’ll be in touch,’ Miller said, tossing back the glass before slipping over the side.

‘You don’t want to stay for a bit of fun? Maybe a quickie?’ The skipper squeezed the front of his trousers, a scheming grin on his grimy face. ‘You look as if you could do with one, and it’s been a while . . .’

‘I don’t screw dirty, old white, fat